


Nom de Plume

by chaineddove



Category: Hikaru no Go
Genre: Community: fifthmus, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 11:56:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaineddove/pseuds/chaineddove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Touya Akiko has a secret.  Touya Akira has a crush.  Shindou Hikaru just wants to get his mother a birthday present… well, maybe not <i>just</i> that, but it’s as good a pretense as any, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nom de Plume

**Author's Note:**

  * For [troisroyaumes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/troisroyaumes/gifts).



> So, okay, I loved all three prompts, and I kind of wanted to write them all, but I ended up writing this one, and although Akira hijacked the fic, I still hope you like it. The pen name is pretentious and ridiculous on purpose. I couldn’t resist the Twilight mock; it was just too easy. If you’re interested, I think _Winter Garden_ is a romantic historical mystery. There was going to be more about that – and, uh, just generally your prompt – but as I mentioned, Akira took the fic over and I couldn’t get it back. HAPPY HOLIDAYS, TARI!

They’ve been sort-of-but-not-entirely tiptoeing around it for a month, two weeks, three days, and about eight hours – not that Akira’s counting – when it happens.

“So,” Shindou says casually on the other end of the line – Akira is often equal parts envious and irate at the fact that Shindou can do _anything_ casually, up to and including insulting senior players and now, apparently, making Akira’s heart nearly jump out of his chest – “are you busy Sunday?” Before Akira can respond, Shindou blithely barrels on, “What am I talking about, of course you’re not busy Sunday, you don’t have any games until Tuesday and you don’t tutor on Sundays and our pick-up game is on Monday.”

“I _could_ be busy,” Akira points out, proud of his ability to keep his voice smooth and just the tiniest bit irritated. “I do have a life outside of – of go.” He leans back against the wall and closes his eyes and wonders why in the world he can’t interact with Shindou like a normal person; maybe he should have just said it – _I do have a life outside of you_ – even if it does sound just a tad obsessive. Besides, it’s true. He _does_ have a life outside of Shindou, even if he is completely free on Sunday.

“Oh,” Shindou says. It is probably Akira’s imagination, but he seems disappointed.

Akira sighs, contemplating again exactly _why_ Shindou, total buffoon that he is, gets to him in all of the most inconvenient ways. “I said I _could_ be busy, not that I _was_ ,” he clarifies. “But if your suggestion is McDonald’s, my answer is no.”

“Hey, Waya totally apologized for that,” Shindou exclaims. “I made him.”

“That was my favorite shirt,” Akira feels the need to point out. “The stain never did come out. And the food was disgusting.”

“Okay, okay, listen,” Shindou says, “Waya’s not coming, okay? I didn’t invite anyone else. And I promise we’re not going to McDonald’s. Okay?”

And Akira, instead of the pithy reply he really should toss back, finds himself saying, “Okay,” just like that.

“Great! I’ll meet you at the Shinjuku station at two.” Before Akira can say anything else, Shindou hangs up.

Akira sits in his desk chair and stares at his phone and tries not to grin like an idiot, because _Shindou didn’t invite anyone else,_ and this might actually be the best thing to happen to him since roughly one month, two weeks, three days, and about eight hours ago, when he had looked at Shindou across the goban and realized, all at once, that he was completely, utterly, stupidly in love.

***

His mother taps a pen against her lips, a thoughtful look on her face; though she has had a computer for several years now, she still prefers to do everything – from the household accounts on up – longhand. She claims the glare from the monitor saps any worthwhile thoughts previously residing in her mind (this is on a good day; what she says about it on a bad day is not fit for human ears at all), and besides, having spent her youth arduously improving her penmanship, she considers it rather a waste not to use it when she can. The fact that said penmanship deteriorates into an impressively incomprehensible scrawl once she’s been at it for awhile has never deterred her; she smiles benevolently as she points out that it is not, at that point, _her_ problem. The computer has thus been relegated to Akira’s room for many years now, and mostly gets used for netgo, but rarely word processing.

Setting a tea tray down on the kitchen table, careful of scattered pages filled with unintelligible symbols which may or may not have been kanji, once upon a time and long ago, Akira wisely keeps his mouth shut. Years of experience have taught him that discretion is the better part of valor, and his mother does not take well to being interrupted. He squints, trying to make out the words on the page nearest him, but quickly abandons hope; there is no telling _what_ it contains.

“But _why_ would he know to look for the key inside the seam of her obi?” she finally asks, her frustration evident. “It isn’t as though it would be readily apparent, unless…”

“Unless he was looking for something else and happened to find it,” Akira suggests, nudging the tea tray gently in her direction. 

She picks up one earthenware cup, blows on the hot liquid it contains, and takes a careful sip, her eyes thoughtful. “Perhaps if he thought she had engaged in an indiscretion, and as he searches her things for some hint of her lover’s identity-”

“He feels something tucked into the seam and tears it open,” Akira finishes for her.

His mother beams at him and says, “You make this so much easier now than when you were a baby. Back then, all you wanted to do was chew on my pens, when you weren’t swallowing go stones. Now you’re filling in troublesome plot inconsistencies.” She makes a note across the edge of the sheet she has been working on and rolls her shoulders. It is clear that she has been at it awhile. “Well, that settles it; I’ll have something for Matsumoto-kun by Sunday after all.” She smiles beatifically and adds, “Now I can invite him in to dinner instead of barring the door and pretending nobody’s home. Sukiyaki sounds good, doesn’t it?”

“Actually,” Akira says as casually as he can – because he knows his mother is no fool, and he isn’t exactly naturally skilled in the art of subtlety – “I’m not going to be home on Sunday.”

His mother is not misled, if her raised eyebrows and the glimmer in her eye are any indication. “Oh? I didn’t think you had a game.”

“I don’t,” he tells her. “I’m going to Shinjuku with Shindou.”

Generally, at this point, he would offer to cancel his plans; this time, he doesn’t, and he knows he is probably transparent, but his mother is better at keeping secrets than he’ll ever be, so she only smiles knowingly and tells him, “I’ll make sure to set aside leftovers, then.”

***

Shinjuku on the second Sunday in December is noisy and crowded and some of these people, Akira thinks, have clearly not realized that summer is over, if their clothes are any indication. He has plenty of time to contemplate girls in skirts comprised of less fabric than is contained in one of his ties and young men in sleeveless shirts, hunched over and breathing puffy clouds of condensation into the air as they hurry on their way. Shindou will probably be late, or just barely on time, but Akira arrives fifteen minutes early, just in case, and spends the time people-watching and reminding himself that he’s supposed to be the calm one.

He’s had enough time over the last few days to think himself into any number of unrealistic scenarios, so he really thinks he’s prepared for just about anything when Shindou comes bounding up the stairs from the station, exactly on time – and if that doesn’t mark a special occasion, Akira doesn’t know what does – with his jacket carelessly gaping open over his garish orange shirt. “Oh good!” Shindou says, jogging up to him. “You’re here!”

“Honestly, Shindou,” Akira says, shaking his head. “Did you expect me to forget?” As if such a thing could be remotely possible. “I’m not you, you know.”

“Man, you _really_ hold grudges,” Shindou says with a roll of his eyes. “First Waya and that horrible shirt – which, for the record, really needed to be destroyed, and Waya did the universe a favor – and now me. I told you, I overslept, and it was only once. Well, one and a half times, but I _did_ show up eventually the second time. I just had to find my keys. But anyway, I’m here, you’re here, we’re here, so let’s go, already.”

“And where exactly are we going?” Akira asks, falling into step beside him, falling, too, into the easy pattern of banter. “You know, one of these days, you will learn to talk on the phone like a civilized person. Say hello and good-bye and, ‘here is what we’re going to do on Sunday afternoon.’ Hope springs eternal.”

Shindou grins sheepishly and tells him, “If I had told you, maybe you’d have said no, and Isumi-san is in China and Akari can’t go anywhere without buying about fifteen unnecessary things in every store and making me carry them, and I’m not even sure Waya _can_ read, so you’re, like, my last hope.”

As Shindou continues to ramble, Akira can literally feel his heart dropping to his stomach, and feels just a little sick. None of his dozens of imaginary scenarios included being Shindou’s third or fourth choice for anything. Suddenly this whole thing seems like a really terrible idea. “Shindou,” he says, “you can start making sense any time.”

“Oh,” Shindou says, stopping in front of the gleaming glass doors to Kinokuniya. “Here we are. Come on, if we get this done, I’ll buy you oden or something, since for whatever reason you don’t appreciate ramen or McDonald’s.” When he notices Akira not following, he turns around and gives him an incredulous look. “What, you don’t like oden either? What _do_ you like?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Akira grumbles, because somehow, _you, for whatever reason_ doesn’t seem to be the correct answer, and he’s given up his mother’s sukiyaki for a bookstore and soup from a street vendor as Shindou’s third choice of companion for some mysterious errand, and he still somehow can’t work up a good mad about it, just because Shindou is offering to buy him dinner. “Oden is fine. Why are you buying me oden?”

“If you would stop asking questions and just come with me, that would be pretty great,” Shindou says and disappears into the store.

***

Half an hour later, the cheery smile on the face of the tidily attired female clerk is definitely slipping. “Listen,” Shindou says, “it had a blue cover. Or maybe it was purple. And there was a woman in a kimono on it, or maybe a guy with a machine gun.” He stops to contemplate a minute, then says, “Probably the woman in a kimono.”

With more patience than Akira feels, the clerk says, “Sir, if you could try to remember the author’s name, or the title, that would be very helpful.”

“I told you, I don’t know!” Shindou says, exasperated.

At this point, Akira feels he is preventing an incident when he grabs Shindou’s arm and drags him toward the display of bestsellers. “Thank you,” he says to the clerk, trying to tell her without words that yes, he realizes Shindou is a giant idiot and kind of unreasonable, but if she can keep from killing him, he – Akira – would really appreciate it. “We’ll take it from here.”

“Hey!” Shindou protests, but lets himself be dragged. “I need her! Even if, man, she really doesn’t know anything.”

Akira contemplates the merits of slapping his hand over Shindou’s mouth, but at least it seems like the clerk has wandered away now and probably didn’t hear. “You, Shindou, should not be the one to say that about anyone, ever,” he replies. “There are literally thousands of books in this store. How is she supposed to divine the exact one you mean?”

“Listen,” Shindou says again, “I told you, it’s some book, my mom wants it, it’s supposed to be popular or something, and there might have been a woman in a kimono – yeah, definitely not the machine gun guy – on a maybe-blue cover. Or maybe the cover is black. Or purple.” He turns a mournful gaze up at Akira and says, “Her birthday’s tomorrow, I think she has, like, every color of scarf ever by now, and she _really_ wants it, and please, you’ve got to help me.”

Akira sighs, but takes pity on him. “If it’s popular, it should be one of these.” None of the displayed books have a blue cover, but then, he isn’t putting much stock in Shindou’s memory when it comes to anything other than kifu.

Shindou looks forlornly over the multi-tiered display. “These don’t look familiar.”

“Well, certainly none of them feature machine guns,” Akira says, and maybe it’s unkind of him, but he’s decided to be amused rather than annoyed by this whole situation.

“So these are all popular, right?” Shindou asks. “So I _could_ just get her any one of these, right? It’s the thought that counts, _right?_ ” He reaches out at random and grabs a book with a glossy black cover featuring a woman’s cupped hands holding a red apple.

Akira takes it from him none too gently and puts it back. What his mother has to say about _that_ book is worse than what she has to say about her computer. “You don’t want that one,” he says with a grimace. “And your mother doesn’t either.”

“I thought you said it was popular!” Shindou protests, reaching for the book again.

“Yes, with people who don’t have brains,” Akira retorts, swatting his hand away. “Trust me, that’s not the one. What happened to the kimono-wearing woman?”

“Well, I don’t see her, do you?” Shindou snaps.

“We could try historical fiction,” Akira says. “It’s this way.” If he does the world one favor today, it will be keeping Shindou and his mother away from that book; if his mother finds out Shindou actually bought a copy she really might kindly but firmly request that Akira find a more suitable rival.

They walk through the stacks, Shindou grumbling the whole while, until suddenly calling out, “Hey! That’s the one!” There is a cardboard display set up with a large reproduction of the book’s cover; it is white, not blue, but there is at least a kimono on the cover, though it’s hanging on a rack and there’s no woman in sight – and these slight differences are the reason Akira didn’t think, or even suspect, that of _course_ it had to be this book, this cover which he has seen about a dozen times in its many incarnations, all rejected before this final version was, at last, approved.

The display is empty, but Shindou runs up to it anyway, crouching to look under it, as if he can find a copy of the book there. “Totally, totally this one. So where is it?”

Another clerk comes out of the stacks and gives him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, sir, we’re all sold out of Murasaki-sensei’s _Winter Garden_.”

“What?” Shindou says, looking up at him from his crouch, “No, no way! I mean, you have boxes and… stuff in the back, right?”

“I’m afraid we just sold our last copy. Our next shipment will come on Tuesday, if you are willing to come back for it.”

“It only came out this past week,” Akira murmurs. Come to think of it, there was an empty spot on the bestseller rack, as well.

“Yes, sir, exactly,” the clerk says to Akira. “It is a very popular book. I am very sorry for the inconvenience.” He bows to excuse himself, and leaves Akira with the empty display and a frowning Shindou and a distinct sense of discomfort.

“Well _that_ just sucks,” Shindou says, jamming his hands into his jean pockets and staring gloomily at the empty display case. “I didn’t even know books _could_ sell out. Manga, maybe. But this stuff?”

“Murasaki Sachiko is considered one of the great voices of modern Japanese literature,” Akira retorts sharply, feeling suddenly defensive.

“Hey, sorry, I didn’t realize you were into this stuff. I’m sure it’s great. I mean, if you go for that sort of thing, which you clearly do, so… I’m just going to shut up now.”

“That would be best,” Akira says.

Shindou’s sigh is deep and world-weary. “So,” he says, “what now? I mean, I could always buy that book with the apple on it-”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Touya cuts him off. “We’ll try another store.”

***

They try four other stores, and every single one is sold out of _Winter Garden_. Shindou thinks it must be a conspiracy; Akira thinks that Murasaki Sachiko, better known to friends and family as Touya Akiko, would be proud. He spares a thought to the family dinner he’s missing, with his mother’s editor probably overindulging in pickles, as usual, and telling outrageously funny stories while his mother plies him with sake in hopes that he doesn’t start in on her again about hand-written manuscripts and joining the twenty-first century. If he’s honest, he’s sorry to have missed it, but he’s glad he’s had this day, too, wandering the shops with Shindou, who may not realize how much Akira just wants to be around him, but at the very least clearly really loves his mother, which is pretty endearing.

“If it’s not a conspiracy,” Shindou says as they walk out of the fourth store into almost complete darkness, lit by enticing storefront windows and the twinkling lights of the first Christmas displays, “then this thing must be the most popular book in the _world_. Or everyone else’s mothers – or, uh, totally not-girly male friends who like books about kimono – have birthdays tomorrow.”

“The book isn’t about kimono,” Akira says with a shake of his head, “which you would know if you read it. And my birthday’s next week, actually, but I already have a copy.”

They walk in silence for a few moments, then Shindou says, “I didn’t forget, you know.”

“I never implied that you had, Shindou,” Akira says.

“No, seriously, I didn’t forget. I dragged Waya all across town for about two days last week – and man, did he ever whine about it – looking for – and you know what, you completely don’t care about that, and oh look, an oden cart!”

“Looking for what, Shindou?” Akira queries, trying to fight down the warm feeling he gets in his stomach thinking about Shindou haring about like this last week, for his sake. Shindou may be clueless about literature, and just about every other thing that isn’t go, really, but Akira can’t fault his enthusiasm.

“Aren’t you hungry, Touya? Because I’m starved. This smells really good,” Shindou says to the elderly man stirring the pot of broth, and shoots him a bright, happy grin. “We’ll take two.”

“Looking for _what_ , Shindou?” Akira insists.

Shindou turns that dazzlingly bright grin on him and says, “I guess you’ll have to wait until next week to find out.”

They eat in silence for awhile, Akira enjoying the cold air against his cheeks and the hot steam wafting up from his bowl. Then Shindou says, softly, “This is nice. I mean, the oden isn’t ramen, though it’s nice anyway, but really… yeah,” he finishes. “I’ve been kind of a jerk today,” he says suddenly, as though he’s just come to the realization.

“Yes,” Akira tells him.

“I didn’t mean to be. And I didn’t really invite Isumi-san or Akari first,” Shindou mumbles, looking down into his bowl. “And Waya reads, probably. But I didn’t invite him either, not that he’d have gone after last week, but still. I didn’t.”

“Okay,” Touya says, and Shindou is giving him a hopeful sort of look, and even though this day hasn’t turned out remotely the way he planned, Akira decides that it’s all right, it’s fine, things are good just like this, for now. “This is nice,” he agrees.

“Maybe we should do it again sometime?” Shindou says, phrasing it like a question.

“That depends,” Akira replies. “I don’t know if I’m willing to go shopping with you again so soon. And if that girl from Kinokuniya ever meets you in a dark alley, I fear for your life.”

Shindou laughs, and slurps his food, and tells him, “You can pick something else to do.”

“Maybe I’ll take you to the public library,” Akira suggests, “and teach you to read actual books without pictures in them.”

And Shindou, who Akira is certain would rather play basketball or go to karaoke or even nap than go to the library, only says, “Okay.” Just like that, Akira thinks. Just like he did. Because maybe, just maybe, they’re on the same page, after all, and Shindou is just better at adapting to it. But that’s all right, he thinks; all he needs is practice.

“Good,” he says. For a few moments, they eat in companionable silence.

“My mother’s birthday really is tomorrow, though,” Shindou says once their bowls are empty and he has tucked his wallet away. “I mean, I didn’t just ask you to come because – I mean, she really did want the book, and I really did think you could help me find it, because you know about things like that.” In the darkness, Shindou’s cheeks seem a little pink, too pink to just be cold. “You know, like… things like books, and kimono, and-”

“Shindou,” Akira says quietly, “quit while you’re ahead.”

“Yeah,” Shindou says. “Okay. Well… I guess I’ll just hit the department store on my way back from our morning game tomorrow; maybe they’ve invented a new color to dye scarves or something. Or maybe I’ll buy chocolate. My mom really likes chocolate, but she always says she shouldn’t buy it, even though my dad and I keep telling her she looks great and is being an idiot. Well, he tells her she looks great. I tell her she’s being an idiot.”

“Of course you do,” Akira says, because it’s typical Shindou. “I wouldn’t worry about it so much,” he says. “These things have a way of working out. Come on, let’s get back to the train; I told my mother I would be home before ten.”

***

When he walks into his house, it is five minutes to ten, and the hallway is dark. He doesn’t see Matsumoto-san’s shoes, so he assumes his parents have already poured him into a taxi and sent him on his way along with whatever draft his mother has relinquished to him for typing. Quietly, he steps out of his shoes and hangs up his coat, then bends down to grab his slippers. When he straightens again, his mother is in the doorway, watching him with a tiny smile. “Did you have a good time?” she asks him.

“Yes,” he tells her, and it’s true. Despite it all, he _did_ have a good time somehow, though he’s really looking forward to sitting down to a nice, normal game of go tomorrow morning. His feet are aching dully from all of the walking he has done today. She is still smiling at him, a little sadly, he thinks, and before he knows what he’s doing, he blurts out, “It wasn’t what I expected.”

She laughs softly. “Oh, Akira-san,” she tells him, “haven’t I taught you anything? Nothing ever is.”

He contemplates that; as a life lesson, it is certainly consistent with his experience. “How was dinner?” he asks her.

“Oh,” she says, “the usual. Matsumoto-kun sends his regards. He’s still trying to get me to put the emperor’s go tutor back into chapter six, though I keep telling him, I really don’t know anything about go.”

“I liked him, too,” Akira admits. He knows she doesn’t like mixing her life and her writing, that she goes out of her way to keep them separate – but he thinks it might be nice if the next book had some small piece of him, and of his father, in it. Maybe, he thinks, he could slip it to Shindou under the pretense of a particularly exciting game of go in chapter six. “You could put him back in,” he suggests. “Father and I could help you.”

She contemplates him for a few moments, then says, “We’ll see.”

He knows she doesn’t mix her life and her writing, but if there’s ever going to be an opportunity to make this request, it is now. “Actually,” Akira says slowly, “I have a favor to ask.”

***

The next day, Shindou is waiting for him when he enters his father’s go salon. “You’re late,” Shindou accuses as Akira slides into his chair.

Akira smiles and retorts, “No, you’re early; though I suppose it is uncommon enough that it is only natural for you to be confused. We moved the time to ten-thirty, remember?”

“Duh, of course I remember,” Shindou says in a tone of voice that clearly says he completely forgot. “Are we going to play, or what?”

“Or what,” Akira says, handing Shindou the small bag he is carrying. “Before we play, this is for your mother.”

Shindou has already pulled the book out of the bag and is staring at it. “Where did this come from?”

“A publishing house,” Akira tells him, quite honestly, too. “You will find that is where most books come from.”

“No, I mean…” Shindou opens the front cover and his eyes bulge. “This is signed.”

“Yes,” Akira replies, “very observant. I’m so glad that you already know how to read; that will make next week’s visit to the library much more pleasant for both of us.”

Shindou’s widened eyes narrow. “No, I mean, it’s _signed_ ,” he repeats. “I looked her up last night. I was trying to find someplace that would ship me the book overnight, since now I know what it’s called and… anyway. This author doesn’t do signings. Or TV, or magazine interviews or _anything_. There was that one signed copy of some other book for that auction last year, but that’s _it_. So where did this come from?”

Akira smiles and opens his goke. “We all have our secrets.”

Shindou’s eyebrows rise until they are hidden behind his bangs. “You have _got_ to be kidding me.”

“Nigiri,” Akira suggests. “Once I’m done eviscerating you, we can use the time you would have spent wandering the department store and looking for a new shade of scarf to get some lunch. You can buy me sushi,” he continues, emboldened by his success, by the flabbergasted look on Shindou’s face, like he has just played a wildly unexpected hand and turned a losing game to his advantage. Then again, this is probably the first time in a month, two weeks, six days, and about thirty minutes that Akira’s had the upper hand. “To thank me, I mean,” he clarifies, when Shindou keeps staring at him.

“For eviscerating me?” Shindou asks. “Not that you will, mind you, because just wait.”

“No,” Akira tells him. “For getting you a birthday present to give to your mother. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Shindou opens his own goke and grabs a handful of stones. “We’re not done talking about this,” he warns.

“No,” Akira agrees, “we’re definitely not done.” He is certain that he doesn’t imagine the slight flush across Shindou’s cheeks. His own face is probably rather pink, too, but that’s all right. Whatever they’ve begun, he’s not in it alone. “But right now, let’s play.”


End file.
